


la gâterie

by NotPersephone



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Birthday Fluff, F/M, Flowers, Hannibal Lecter Cooks, our boy is in love and likes to show it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:08:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27802051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/pseuds/NotPersephone
Summary: Apart from the automatic email from a phone company she once foolishly gave her details to, it is the only other reminder that it is her birthday. Not that she minds; she has always kept the date to herself, finding celebrating it pointless. And no one has.Apart from one person.
Relationships: Bedelia Du Maurier/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 14
Kudos: 50





	la gâterie

The drops of rain patter against the window with impatience, hastening the passing of seconds. Bedelia gazes at the glass, seeing only her own reflection as the world outside becomes enveloped in darkness of an ongoing storm. She frowns, listening to the manic sounds, unsure as to why she is still standing here, waiting. She knows exactly _what_ she is waiting for, but she tries to ignore the motive, feeling somehow foolish for even thinking about it. Still, it is the reason why she remains dresses in her usual impeccable silk and cotton, instead of being curled up in bed with the book. She is not in a habit of answering the door in her pyjamas, even if the person on the other side is a delivery driver she will likely never see again. But the time for deliveries has long passed; Bedelia once again strives to see through the rain stained window at the last light of day fading away quickly. She looks at her watch, it is late; she is certain all couriers have rushed through their work due to the warning of the impending storm. The storm that is gaining momentum by the minute.

With another frown, she abandons her spot and sets to leave the room. It is not important anyway, she tells herself, it is not like she pays special attention to the date herself. As she walks, her eyes briefly fall on the card lying on the coffee table, leaning dangerously close to its edge, as if knowing it will be discarded in the recycle bin tomorrow. A birthday card from her sister, equal parts generic and childish design, each member of the family mentioned by name, her sister’s way of reminding Bedelia how fulfilled her life is. As if it were something Bedelia should be jealous of.

Apart from the automatic email from a phone company she once foolishly gave her details to, it is the only other reminder that it is her birthday. Not that she minds; she has always kept the date to herself, finding celebrating it pointless. And no one has.

Apart from one person.

Every year on her birthday, she receives a large bouquet of red roses. There is no card accompanying the gift but there is no need for it. She knows exactly who the roses are from. The flowers are always crimson red like shreds of his heart formed into petals and offered at her feet. They have never spoken about it, yet another unmentioned facet to his gamble of silent adoration. She has never encouraged him with any words of gratitude but has not reproved him either. Countless times she has set the boundaries with unbend firmness, only to have him dance across the line with the skill of a seasoned acrobat artist, as though they were nothing but wrinkles in a sand. Yet she cannot deny secretly enjoying the masterful performance.

But no flowers arrived today. Perhaps he has finally given up on his unprofessional quest, perhaps her rules have not been for nought. It is for the best, Bedelia convinces her own mind, ignoring the strange pang of regret tightening in her chest.

She goes to the kitchen and pours herself a half glass of wine; she might as well do something to mark the date. Glancing around, she considers preparing dinner but decides against it, not feeling hungry at all. She lingers in the vacant space for longer than necessary, holding the empty glass. The night has fallen in full, the rain continuing its assault on her windows; it is time to call it a day.

She walks down the hallway, mentally sorting through the reading material she left on her desk when the doorbell rings. She turns abruptly; it is a sound she has secretly awaited throughout the day but not at this time. Her steps are wary as she nears the door and her hand hesitant as she opens it. But her caution gives way to an instant startle.

“Hannibal? What are doing it here?” she stares at the face of a man she has pondered on mere moments ago, a strangest of coincidences. Perhaps like a legendary boogieman, she has thought his name too many times, making him materialize on her doorstep.

“Good evening Doctor, I hope it is not too late,” he beams at her, as always when he sees her.

Bedelia opens her mouth to respond, but then she finally notices the item in his hand: the bouquet of roses. Crimson red, like every year.

“Are you working as a delivery man now?” she cannot help a keen remark, disregarding the warm coil unfolding in her core.

“Unfortunately, the florist has refused to provide a courier today,” Hannibal states, the razor-sharp tone of his voice making it clear that the shop has not only lost his business, but also his favour and everything that might entail.

They both evade the objective of the delivery, practised with years of unspoken gifts. She glances at the flowers anew, drops of rain clinging to the petals, making them appear rawer, like emotions springing forth with fresh force. Few splashes of rain land on her face, making her suddenly remember the severe weather.

“Please come in,” she recalls her good manners and opens the door wider.

Hannibal steps in with a gracious nod of thank you. Bedelia closes the door behind him and turns to face him, the flowers now directly between them, their scent permeating the air of the hallway, their purpose no longer to be ignored.

“Do you want me to sign a delivery docket?” her further attempt of humorous distraction falls flat as Hannibal now gazes at her with all seriousness, a moment that was years in a making.

“Happy birthday, Bedelia,” he presents her with the bouquet, and her heart gives a loud thud, resonating louder than the rain outside.

There they are again, the pieces of Hannibal’s heart arranged into a perfect floral composition.

“You shouldn’t have, Hannibal,” she offers the standard phrase of politeness, wondering if it has any meaning here at all. But she takes the flowers from his hands, a timid smile pulling at her lips. “Thank you,” she hides the impending blush behind the petals, inhaling the pleasant aroma.

Hannibal’s smile widens alongside his eyes as he takes in the sight of her enjoying the offering, one he could have only imagined until now.

They both remain silent; the situation is without precedence and there is no script for them to fall back onto.

“Would you like a glass of wine? To warm up,” Bedelia suggests, almost shy, realizing he is still standing dutifully in one spot, his hair and coat wet, not wanting to soil the rest of her hallway.

“I would like that,” his face lights up with eagerness and he slowly removes his coat, hanging it on its usual spot next to the door.

Without another word, Bedelia turns and makes her way to the kitchen, with Hannibal following silently behind.

“Just one glass,” he says as she steps into the dark space, “The weather makes navigation quite tricky as it is.”

Bedelia turns on the lights and feels him pausing in the doorway.

“You really should not have driven in this storm, Hannibal,” she feels as if she is repeating herself, but there is genuine concern in her words this time around. Still, she places the bouquet on the counter with outmost care, each glance at the roses making her smile anew, almost despite herself.

“But it is your birthday, Bedelia,” he states firmly as if it were the only thing that ever mattered.

“It is not an important thing,” she responds, head turning to look at him at last, just as the gravity of his words settles on his face.

“It is important to me,” he remarks, each word laced with emotions flowing deep and long, an underground river in his heart.

“Everyone has a birthday, Hannibal,” she tries to deflate the profundity of his admission, walking towards the cabinet and retrieving a clean glass.

“Everyone is not you,” he retorts promptly, making Bedelia’s fingers tighten around the stem of the glass as she collects her own thoughts.

She turns on the spot, still considering a suitable riposte, but notices his eyes focused on the one empty glass on the counter. He looks up at her then, a strange regret in his gaze.

“Were you expecting a party?” she asks, the corner of her lips twisting in ironic amusement.

“No, but I was not expecting you to be all alone on your birthday,” he states surely.

_And still you came here in the middle of the storm._

Sudden surge of annoyance rises to the surface of her mind; another part of his game of pretence she does not wish to play tonight.

“Like I said, I do not celebrate the date,” she says instead, cutting any recognition of her solitude off.

He frowns, his eyes now moving to the rest of the kitchen, searching for signs of any recent use.

“I hope you enjoyed a nice dinner at the very least,” he presses on. She can easily perceive the quiet urgency in his stare, a mixture of the importance of food in his mind and the not so secret desire to know hers.

“I wasn’t really hungry tonight,” she longs to end the subject, pouring him the wine.

She offers him the glass and meets a genuinely concerned expression.

“I am fine, Hannibal,” she cuts shorts any forthcoming words of worry.

His head tilts in compliance as he says nothing, making Bedelia pleased. Yet the disquietude in his eyes does not vanish, merely transforms into an unknown spark, spurring her alertness anew.

“Perhaps,” he begins slowly, looking strangely elated as he carefully choses his next words, “I can prepare something for you.”

Bedelia’s gaze widens; she did not expect that. She taps the ball of her glass while she considers her response.

“If you do not mind, of course,” he adds swiftly, seeing the consternation unfolding within her.

“I do not mind, but it is really not necessary, Hannibal,” she tilts her head, trying to emphasize the absurd nature of the proposal. Yet, a glint of curiosity begins to kindle in her mind. “There is no need for you to trouble yourself in any way,” she adds, shaking off the inquisitiveness before it reflects on her face.

But not well enough, it seems.

“That would be no trouble at all,” the flickers in his eyes dance merrily as he easily discerns the lacklustre nature of her denial, “I have time to spare. The storm is very heavy at present. I was planning to wait in my car until it settles.”

He strokes the stem of his glass ever so timidly. Bedelia’s lips twist with discontent at the almost too obvious of a bait.

He is losing his finesse.

“You do not have to wait in a car, Hannibal,” her eyes narrow in rebuke of the transparent play, “But there is also not _need_ for you to cook for me.”

“Yes, I am aware of that,” he once again faultlessly reads between her lines, firmly asserting her sufficiency, “But it is your birthday.”

“You have already done more than enough,” she presses softly, sensing the blush rising to her cheeks anew while she glances at the bouquet, her skin determined to match the petals in their hue.

Yet the conviction in her voice falters further as curiosity continues to take over her mind. Hannibal pounces at the crack in her persistence like a cat spotting his favourite treat.

“Never enough, Doctor. It would be my pleasure,” he settles his glass down, takes off his jacket and begins to roll up his sleeves, sealing the commitment before she reconsiders. “You could both use some nourishment on this cold evening.”

He steps behind the counter with verve as if answering the siren call of the unused space of her kitchen.

“Is there anything you fancy?” his tone turns chirpy as he opens her fridge, already at ease in the setting as though it were his own.

Her eyes narrow at the unanticipated scrutiny of her kitchen, but she is too startled, and too intrigued, by this development of her evening to begrudge his overfamiliarity.

“No,” she responds tensely, now feeling strangely self-conscious about her surely inadequate by comparison food supplies.

But Hannibal says nothing, closing the fridge and swiftly moving to the cabinets to check on other supplies.

“How does salmon and couscous sound?” he asks, already taking out the ingredients, “I believe it will be appropriately light and take the least time to prepare.”

“That sounds aggregable,” she barely thinks of her response, mesmerized by Hannibal’s movements.

“Excellent,” he beams at her afresh, returning to the fridge and retrieving the fish, “And some roasted vegetables would add an appropriate finish,” he takes out the courgettes and tilts his head in appreciation of their freshness.

It seems her trip to the farmer’s market was not for nought; she begrudges herself for feeling a sense of relief at Hannibal’s approval of her fridge contents. He places the vegetables alongside the couscous and spices and sets to prepare the salmon pieces.

Bedelia is about to direct him to the location of the chopping board and other utensils but he does not need any guidance. He moves across her kitchen with unpaired facility, appearing more familiar with the space that she has ever been. In minutes, the counter turns in a chef’s workspace with impeccable display of ingredients, all set up in order of use. Her evening has been turned on its head in mere minutes; the previously vacant space with nothing but a single wine glass to mark someone’s presence is now filled with not only flowers but a man busing himself to cook her dinner. The instant domesticity is striking; Bedelia grasps at her glass, the sensation of smooth surface beneath her fingers ensuring her this is not some bizarre dream. But the notion is hard to shake off, especially how gratifying it all appears.

Hannibal takes a sip of his own wine in between seasoning the fish, two fingers wrapped around the stem in a way to not grease the glass. The gesture seems well practiced, no doubt a part of his usual cooking ritual; it is also very endearing. Bedelia finds herself easing into the setting, her mind no longer alerted, allowing it to relax and appreciate the view.

It is her birthday, after all.

Her eyes follow his movements with joy; she has never thought the task of cooking can be so attractive. Hannibal’s nimble fingers season the fish, and then the vegetables, each gesture marked with effortless grace. Bedelia knows these are the hands of a skilled surgeon but his movement are more akin to an artist, composing an elaborate symphony out of simple food notes. She wonders if he purposely puts up a show for her, brandishing his gestures. Cooking is an important part of his life and he finally gets a chance to share its morsels with her, something he has always longed for. And she in turn appreciates being able to observe him in this surrounding, nurturing her inquisitiveness, like seeing an endangered animal in its natural habitat.

And there are other _factors_ as well. The muscles of Hannibal’s back press against the fitted fabric of his shirt as he shifts in between the counter and the stove, an entrancing flourish to top an already alluring picture. Bedelia smiles to herself, taking a sip of her wine, savouring the spectacle.

Soon, the aroma of roasted fish, vegetables and spices permeates the air of the kitchen, making the cold space swirl with pleasant warmth. Bedelia’s cheeks begin to burn; she is not sure whether it is the wine, the heat of the stove or something else entirely. She continues to enjoy the sight, Hannibal’s graceful figure moving around her kitchen as though he has always been here. It does not take long, just like he promised, and she finds herself feeling a tang of unbidden regret as he takes the vegetables out of the pan and finishes arranging the food on the plates. He begins to clean up and she considers offering assistance, it is still _her_ kitchen, but remains silent, choosing to take further delight in his equally elegant movements while he brings her kitchen to its previous spotless state.

“Perhaps it would best if we moved to the dining room,” he offers, putting his jacket back on and adjusting its fit. He pauses and looks at her to take the lead.

“Yes, of course,” she watches him grasp the plates with dexterity of a seasoned waiter, yet another fascinating sight, and awaits her direction.

Bedelia sets her empty glass on the counter and takes her bouquet, a rather fitting centrepiece to their impromptu dinner, before making her way out of the kitchen. He follows obediently, the previous overfamiliarity now turning into a muted restrain.

A flick of a switch brings life to the room as Bedelia walks in first, wondering how long it has been since she last used it. The space feels as unwelcoming in its cold as the kitchen did before, making her thoughts strained afresh with the full grasp of her solitary life. If Hannibal has similar impression of the room, he keeps it to himself, still dutifully two steps behind her. Bedelia puts the bouquet in the middle of the table and stands aside, strangely unsure of what to do next. It has been awhile since she entertained guests. Or has been entertained, for that matter.

“I think Sauvignon Blanc would a best pairing here,” Hannibal says, placing the plates on the side of the table, the one glass limit no longer serving as his curb, it seems, “Unless you prefer a different vintage.”

“No, that is fine,” she nods and leaves the room again, still moving as though in a dream, her legs leading her on their own accord.

When she returns with fresh glasses and a bottle, the table is fully set, another display of his flawless skills, two plates with matching napkins facing each other with wordless anticipation.

“Excellent,” he instantly steps forward to relieve her of the burden.

Bedelia takes a seat as he opens the bottle and pours her and himself a glass, before sitting on the chair opposite her. She looks at the plate in front of her, admiring the composition and the appetizing aroma.

“It looks wonderful,” she comments, suddenly realising she is in fact very hungry, “Thank you.”

She knows it is not _his food,_ but he watches her closely, taking delight in her savouring the dish, nonetheless.

“I am glad,” he nods in gratitude and proceeds to cut into his own piece of fish.

They eat in silence and Bedelia’s mind once again drifts to the abnormality of the situation. Hannibal’s eyes flare up as he notices her deep in thought.

“Is everything all right, Doctor?” his voice is calm, but she can discern a timbre of tenacity in its shadows.

Bedelia is aware he wants nothing more than to know the workings of her mind. Unlike his thoughts which Bedelia reads with ease, hers remain a closed book he is eager to open. She would be wary to disclose too much but it is a special circumstance; she feels his efforts should be awarded with a peak beneath the cover.

“Yes, I have been merely pondering when was the last time I had a birthday meal,” she offers a glimpse into her thoughts.

The gleam in his eyes dims swiftly, more concern reflected within.

“It really is not a day that needs to be celebrated,” she awards his worry with a timid smile.

Setting his fork down, Hannibal considers her words, prudently choosing what to say next.

“You should be celebrated every day, Bedelia,” he risks another flattery and presses on before she gets a chance to chastise him, “Yet sometimes it is easier, or more appropriate even, to fall back onto a customary tradition to express appreciation.”

Bedelia’s thoughts venture to the personalised yet so impersonal card from her sister.

“An automatic reminder in a calendar hardly constitutes as caring,” she responds, taking a sip of her wine.

“I agree,” Hannibal nods instantly, “But that is not always the case.” He lifts his own glass to his lips as if wanting to dilute his admission with the wine.

The heat returns to Bedelia’s cheeks while she sets her own glass down, lost for response. She opts for silence, focusing on her food instead.

Soon the conversation shifts to less charged subjects, but not any less engaging. Bedelia finds her stomach and mind equally satisfied, enjoying the stimulus of a worthy exchange. Silence falls as they finish the meal, both finding distraction in their respectable glasses of wine. Bedelia glances at her empty plate; she does not remember the last time she found such pleasure in food.

Or company.

“I should have considered bringing dessert,” Hannibal breaks the stillness, following her stare.

“You really have done more than enough, Hannibal,” she asserts anew, but not without a note of playfulness in her voice this time, her nourished body putting her mind at ease alongside it.

“But given the occasion,” he presses still, head tilted, leaving the suggestion to its full interpretation.

“You cannot possibly mean a birthday cake,” she lets out a chuckle, “I am far too old for such frivolities.”

“One is never too old to give into indulgences,” he asserts, “Not that you are in any way old, Doctor.”

Bedelia rewards his swift save with a smile; not that she seeks such reassurance, but she cannot deny the pleasant warmth his words elicit within her. She drinks the remaining drops of her wine and stands up, her empty plate in hand.

“I will see to it, Doctor,” Hannibal rises from his seat in an instant, hand reaching out to take a hold of her dish.

“No, Hannibal, it is only fair,” she declines his offer with shake of her head, “You cooked diner,” she takes his plate before he gets a chance to do so himself. Her mind clenches the implied domesticity in its bud, and she exits the room before he can read the consternation in her eyes. Or she will see something in his.

When she returns to the dining room, she finds him standing in the middle of the room, twirling the glass in his hand and glancing in the direction of the fireplace.

“Do you mind if I light the fire?,” Hannibal asks, sensing her return, stepping closer to the currently empty fireplace, “I would like to make sure my hair is dry, nothing worse than catching a cold.”

Bedelia’s head tilts aside while she ponders over yet another frail lure. She knows it is very much needless; she has enjoyed watching the strands of his hair curl up as they dried, the extensive moisture freeing them from their usual styling constrictions. But she says nothing, merely nodding her consent. The warmth in her stomach has long passed and she somehow longs for the return of the sensation. Another graceful display follows as Hannibal arranges the logs and starts the fire at his first attempt. Bedelia watches the flames grow and the temperature of the room follows, adding to the atmosphere of cosiness.

Finishing his task, Hannibal takes his wine glass and takes a seat on the sofa. Now that they are no longer bound by the ritual of dining, his movements appear tentative. Grasping at her own refilled glass, she joins in, sitting with the same caution on the other end. The unspoken sentiments linger in the space between them, fretful like the flames in the fireplace.

“Thank you, Hannibal,” Bedelia speaks first, her voice fragile under the weight of her heart, emotions threatening to rise like steam from her warmed mind, “For dinner. And the flowers.”

_All the flowers._

She pauses, unsure how to convey her sentiment. But her words are more than enough for Hannibal.

“I am glad you liked them,” he smiles at her, equally timid in his feelings, as if accepting the flowers meant accepting his heart.

They fall silent again. Bedelia’s head feels dazed, alcohol and heat making her thoughts harder to gather. But she knows she is not ready for their evening to end. She puts her glass aside and shifts closer to Hannibal. He sits up straighter at once, mirroring her gesture and setting his glass down, before putting his arm on the back of the sofa, half invitation, half casual gesture, easy to fall back onto in case he has misread her intentions.

But he has not.

Bedelia moves closer, hand resting on his chest; she senses the heat of his body radiating beneath the fabric of his shirt, somehow more robust that the fire burning in the distance. Her fingertips press down further, relishing the feel of his body, and Hannibal’s face flushes with barely constrained desire. Bedelia’s lips twists as she ponders her next move; perhaps one should give into indulgences at times.

And given the occasion.

Without a second thought, she shifts forward and presses her lips against his. They are as warm as his body and she luxuriates in the heat. Hannibal responds with an urgency of his own, returning the gesture in an instant, hand cupping her cheek, mouth moving against hers, caressing and tasting, the most exquisite of desserts he could have dreamed of. Bedelia feels her heart swooning at each touch of his lips, light-headed with the intensity of the sensation as they kiss again and again. She must remind herself to breathe.

Bedelia breaks the connection with a loud gasp, mouth parted and eyes wide as though shocked by her own boldness. She looks at Hannibal and finds him more breathless than her; the observation makes her strangely pleased. Their rushed breaths add to the quiet melody of the crackling fire and the rain continuing its offensive on the windows.

“I do not think I should be driving tonight,” his voice cracks at the first syllable but he manages to regain the composure, “I will call for a driver.”

It could be yet another feeble attempt at a bluff, but his eyes tell her otherwise. The earnestness in his stare gives her a chance to retreat and end this evening as if nothing has occurred. Somehow the submission makes her want him even more. She smiles, fingers reaching out to stroke his jaw.

“That won’t be necessary.”

She leans forward and kisses him again.

As she leads him up to her bedroom, her fingers entwined with his, her mind swirls with giddiness. She feels like a teenager, not a woman who has just aged yet another year, impatient to unpack her present. Halfway up the stairs, Hannibal’s arm encircles her waist while his lips press against the skin of her neck, eager to start on their caresses. Bedelia sighs with contentment and tilts her head, urging him on.

He was right, after all. One is never too old to enjoy a birthday treat.

**Author's Note:**

> I am finally back, honestly the more time passes, the more anxious I am when posting a new story.  
> This idea came to me randomly a night before my own birthday (which was over 2 weeks ago, I am sloow) and I thought it would be nice to have something birthday related for these two. You can never go wrong with adoring Hannibal and Bedelia allowing herself to give in, if only a bit :)  
> The title means "treat" in French.
> 
> Thank you for reading, I hope you liked it! Please let me know what you think. Stay safe ♥


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